


When It's Time to Go Home

by jat_sapphire



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26914978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: Sometimes, they both just want sex.  And sometimes a story grabs my brain and won't let go.  Who needs sleep?
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	When It's Time to Go Home

Sometimes Ray just wants to use himself, light the blue paper and not even step away. His body is trained and tightened like a machine with a spanner, every piece of it sharp and twisted hard, like the Hot Wheels he used to run back and forth across the kitchen floor, Rrrummm, RRRmmm, RRRRMMMM, and then let go and they burst out, zooming for a couple of feet before they gave up and stopped. They twisted and spiraled like the way Bodie brings the Capri up next to where the gunmen are crouched down behind their car. Ray jumps out and finds his own place, pulls the Walther out of his holster, mind full of incoherent _GodBodie there! There! Gethimgethimhe'saboutto..._ and Bodie fires, Ray fires, and the car's blistered with holes but he's OK, and Bodie's grinning, so he's OK too. The mechanics will whinge and Cowley will be irritable but he reports two dead, neither of them us, and it's enough, but now they're both wound like springs. Nights like that, sometimes afternoons, there's no time or ease for foreplay. Nice as soft tits and hips are, a fall of perfumed hair and soft lips and softer lips below, a bird wants her plumes stroked and Ray wants to fuck.

So he lifts one end of his mouth, half grin and half grimace, and Bodie sticks out his lips before tilting his head back and letting his eyelids flutter and fall shut. When they open again they are burning. That's a yes.

They go to ground at whomever's flat is nearest. Afterward there'll be lager and takeaway, a game on the box if there is one, but right now they're clawing at each other's clothes and falling together like tigers. Bodie's long pale neck, the tender spots behind his ears and the lobes, sweet with fresh sweat and the honey smell of Bodie, the beaded rounds and warm pebbles on his chest that make Ray growl and worry as if he could really feed himself here, handfuls of Bodie's ribs and hips and arse, where's the lube? There. The kisses that somehow hold the whole discussion and consent, Bodie's trust and the yielding twist of him opening to the hot, the hottest place for Ray to bring his own heat, or the blunt strong fingers teasing and circling and poking, bringing Ray to the boil like a kettle, jittering and whistling, impatient for the hot round head of Bodie's prick to come in, come in. Hard.

Oh so good. There are some nights (or afternoons) when both are bent on sheathing themselves, shoving home and pulling back and pushing in again, and they roll to one side and the other, lube spattering everywhere, until one grabs a pillow to go under his hips or feels both sides of the other's jaw, glaring and insisting _"Next time_ ," before pressing a long kiss to the other's mouth and getting hands and knees under him.

But in the end, no one loses. There's time enough for both, life and fire for both of them, unless one is closed behind ambulance doors, A&E doors, ICU unit doors, and then there's nowhere to go but those plastic chairs or the rain-streaked windows showing the dim carpark and the hundreds-and-thousands of wet cars. Soft voices. Swinging pendulum noises of doctors and nurses passing back and forth, and in the worst cases, the machines breathing and pumping blood and medicine into him. Flakes of fear drift like snow, whenever Ray or Bodie thinks this might be the time that Bodie or Ray won't win, won't ride out the hospital doors in the triumph of complaining about the weather or the kerb or that night shift nurse whose number he never got!

Birds are fine and soft and good to feel up and play like violins. But at the end of the day, any time of day, any day at all, it's the partner who is the bedrock each of them is founded on, the one who understands and gives and takes, solid and real. When it's time to go home, they both know where to go.


End file.
